Quotes About Roses

No roses without thorns.

Honor women! They strew celestial roses on the pathway of our terrestrial life.

Few women see power as an end in itself. The point of power is the freedom to cultivate roses.

Glory to Women! They weave and entwine heavenly roses into an earthly life.

Fair ladies, masked, are roses in their bud; Dismasked, the damask sweet commixture shown, Are angels vailing clouds, or roses blown.

There was something rather blousy about roses in full bloom, something shallow and raucous, like women with untidy hair

What though youth gave love and roses,Age still leaves us friends and wine.

The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.

Time is jealous of you, and wars against your lilies and your roses.

She looked at her roses. They were white, some incurved and holy, others expanded in an ecstacy. The tree was dark as a shadow. She lifted her hand impulsively to the flowers; she went forward and touched them in worship.

And even on the Christmas roses the smuts settled persistently, incredible, like black manna from skies of doom.

Life is painful. It has thorns, like the stem of a rose. Culture and art are the roses that bloom on the stem. The flower is yourself, your humanity. Art is the liberation of the humanity inside yourself.

Rachel and Kirsty pinned each other's corsages on. The sweet smell of roses wafted up to them, and they smiled at each other. What are you thinking about Kirsty? asked Rachel. I was just remembering what happened when Kate put the True Love Crown on Princess Grace's head, said Kirsty. I think our adventure was wonderful, but the most wonderful thing of all is knowing that the royal couple will live happily ever after. And we helped it to happen, Rachel agreed. Long live the prince and princess!

Friday beneath the sky, its little postcards of melancholy Outside each window, the engines inside the roses at half speed, The huge page of the sea with its one word despair, Fuchsia blossoms littered across the deck, Unblotted tide pools of darkness beneath the ferns … And still I go on looking, match after match in the black air.

There ought to be a great Distance between Raillery and Satire, so that one may never be mistaken for the other: Raillery ought indeed to surprise, and sensibly touch, those to whom it is directed; but I would not have the Wounds it makes, either deep or lasting: Let those who feel it, be hurt like Persons, who, gathering Roses, are pricked by the Thorns, and find a sweet smell to make amends.

Satire is merely pointing out that roses have thorns — and that we can't avoid pricks.

The happy day in which, sweet heart, for you, A rosier tint o'erspreads this breast of mine, Sending its message through Saint Valentine.

Oh, we had a lot of sex back then in Montreal; it wasn't just me. Blame it on the cold. The roses in everyone's cheeks made them seem way more appealing than they actually were. We confused the indoors with intimacy and electric heating with connection.

When Vivian began to recover they brought her a fluted glass vase with an arrangement of lilies and yellow roses from the flower shop on Eighteenth Street owned by an elegant man Arthur had once been involved with, Christos, who was friends with both of them. He, too, loved the theater and everything about it. Later he opened a restaurant.

They knelt on the carpet of grass, damp with dew. Sofia glanced around, taking solace in her garden. Realizing she might never see it again, she closed her eyes and inhaled the delicate aromas of her luscious red roses, the creamy white honeysuckle, and her favorite, mounds of lilac bushes that blazed purple every spring.

but from this distance, the velvety reds, flashing yellows and glassy whites [of the roses] seemed to break up the light of the summer sun into its various elements and cast it back far more brilliantly than any other flower ever could, seemed not exactly of the earth, but of space and air itself.

He pooped twice, and I didn't pick it up. My feeling is if God wanted me to pick up dog poop he would have made it look like diamonds and smell like roses.

Roses belong to the set R

The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst